It was a hot day in the month of March. The MUSN project was progressing slowly but steadily. It was dusk and we were all on our way back home. Anurag, Kirti, Shauvik and Sneha had already left for their respective buses. Now, we were left with four Kurla going people: Sanket, Varsha, Smita and myself. Pushkar, fellow Robocon mate and a wonderful friend was around working on Prithvi. I decided to wait back to leave with him even as the others proceeded ahead to board an auto-rickshaw to Kurla.
Pushkar soon wound up his work too and now we were seeking out a third guy to give us company in the auto-rickshaw. It is indeed difficult to find a person going to Kurla at this hour. Pushkar spotted someone whom he knew and would accompany us. There were smiles all around. We were on our way, when this friend of Pushkar realised he had some work and left. We sighed, lost hope and the two of us moved on to get the auto and reached Kurla East.
Pushkar, a die-hard foodie, hadn’t had some food for quite some time and went to have a vada-pav - a Maharashtrian fast food having a high satiety value - just outside the start of the foot-over-bridge (FOB). It was an almost daily routine for him now to stop at the Maharashtra vada-pav shop. My tummy was full from the lunch I had a couple of hours back and I waited for him at the foot of the bridge. It seemed that the vadas were being fried and it was taking more time than usual.
An old man, probably in his seventies, was standing at some distance from me. Some men passed between us and onto the FOB. All of a sudden a hand fell on my shoulder from the back. It was the old man. It seemed he was blind. Not looking towards me, he asked,
“Beta, Santacruz kaunsi bus jayegi?” (Son, which bus will leave for Santacruz?)
I have never been to Santacruz by this route, but knew that the buses started from the opposite side of the FOB. Gesturing to the other side of the bridge, I said,
“Santacruz ki bus east se nahin, west se milegi.” (You will get the bus to Santacruz from the west, not the east side.)
He gave me his ear; looked like he couldn’t hear me properly. After a few seconds, he looked towards the other side. Was he indeed blind, or did he look in the direction I pointed my hand to?
I was now standing on his right, observing him, while he was still looking at the other side. He looked very frail. His skin was heavily tanned. A number of wrinkles covered his face and hands. His hair was silvery with a few splashes of black. He wore a brown chequered shirt; the cuffs were folded above the elbow. The collar cloth had worn off and was soiled. It was anything but stiff. The trouser had numerous raffus over it, the bottoms had weathered away. His chappals were torn too. His foot-nails had over-grown and were obnoxious. He now held my right hand in his own right hand. Pointing to the top of the bridge, he said,
“Beta, mujhe wahan tak chod doge?” (Son, could you leave me there?)
He clasped my hand too tight. I wondered where this energy came from considering his frail and shaky body. I could not say ‘no.’ I agreed to leave him there. I forgot Pushkar for the moment and we started our upward ascent. He was taking baby steps over the stairs. I was forced to follow suit. The situation was awkward. How could two persons hold each other’s right hand and move ahead upward? I had crossed my right hand over my left and we were climbing slowly. It was still cumbersome. Each time he raised his foot, I would feel more pressure on my hands; he would grasp it tighter! I could only realise that he was too old to climb, and was scared to take every single step.
We reached the middle of the stairs, the stilt on the Kurla FOB on the east side. I took my left hand closer to his right. He immediately held it and left my right hand. Relief! The journey from Base Camp to Camp 1 had ended. He took some rest. I was watching the change of hands all this time. His hand was thin, fingers long. His palm was full of tobacco stains, the nails showed this more clearly. And coming to think that that hand held me, it was gross!
By now his rest was over, and we proceeded to the summit. Again slowly and steadily, baby stepping, and feeling the grasp more severely whenever he raised a foot. And again I could not take my hand from his hold, although I was uncomfortable with that. We reached the top earlier than I had thought.
“Aapko wahan se utar kar bus mil jayegi,” (You will get the bus getting down from that side,)
I said. He still looked in the west direction. He wouldn’t look at me! Nor did he release my hand. The polio dose administrators were staring at me. And there was no sign of Pushkar. Wonder what kept him so long. Surely, it doesn’t take more time to fry vadas than to climb Mt. Everest. Or was he having another helping?
“Mein mere dost ke liye ruka hua hoon. Aap jao.” (I am waiting for my friend. You go ahead.)
But he wouldn’t budge, nor leave my hand. Pushkar by now had got the vada-pav. I signaled him that I was moving ahead. “Chalo, chacha.” (Lets move, Uncle.) I am sure he didn’t hear it, but we started moving. And he still had not looked towards me. I wondered whether he was blind, deaf, both or neither. Neither of the permutation fit in.
Pushkar had caught up with us by now. Munching on his hot vada-pav, he moved his head in a manner of asking, “what is going on?” I only shrugged. Kurla FOB, if you been here in the evening, is a crowd of headless people rushing to catch a train home. A proper mob. I was walking half a step ahead of him; moving people aside and making way for him.
We moved towards the west side, at a slow pace. Somewhere in the middle of the bridge the man said,
“Lad, you are a philanthropic. I am obligated to you.”
I was stunned. Not at the compliment, but at the language! He spoke clearly and fluently. I never expected him to speak English. Not with his age, not with his looks, not with his attire. But, he knew the language too well! I replied a humble, “You are welcome, Sir!” Now, I felt the need to look into his eyes. But he never turned his head, neither while he spoke, nor while he listened. I could not read his eyes. I realised we had no eye contact right from the beginning. The communication looked incomplete.
We usually get down on platform 1B to catch a train home. I decided to get down to platform 1A though. I could still catch the same train, but at the same time, I could leave the old man more close to the bus-depot on the west. Pushkar agreed and followed us. We got down the bridge pretty quickly. It didn’t have stairs; instead there was a slope on the left side of this bridge.
We reached the road on the west side. i said,
“Well Sir, I have a train to catch, and I do not know which bus will take you to Santacruz.”
He wouldn’t let go off my hand. He uttered something that sounded like,
“Bete, tum mujhe bus tak pahucha do.” (Son, leave me near the bus.)
“Chachaji, lekin mujhe pata nahin ki kaunsi bus Santacruz jayegi.” (Uncle/Sir, I do not know which bus will take you to Santacruz.)
We were talking as we moved and still no eye contact. The talk was getting uncomfortable! I decided to connect him to some person going to Santacruz. Pushkar helped me in this endeavour. But when he heard Pushkar asking people to assist him to the bus, he reacted. Now, he’s not deaf! He said a bit sternly,
“Bete, tum hi mujhe bus tak pahucha sakte ho.” (Son, only you can make me reach the bus.)
Now, there’s power in his voice too! I could only oblige. I asked Pushkar to ask the conductors around about the bus. Meanwhile, I asked some fruit vendors nearby, too. We got a common reply. A pointer to a double-decker bus standing some distance away. A queue was already entering it. Even before I point the bus to this man, he leaves my hand and starts walking towards the double-decker.
Still no eye contact. He muttered something, which I could never hear in the entire crowd. What followed is crystal clear in my mind till date. I can still visualize the scene.
Pushkar and I are standing some distance away from the bus. The old man enters the zig-zag maze for the queue. He is moving faster I realised. He wants to catch the bus. Then he does the unthinkable.
He steps over the iron bar that acts as the divider in the queue. I cannot believe my eyes. I look towards Pushkar. Pushkar looks back. I can’t believe his eyes too! We both turn back to the old man. He is now already over the bar safely, and is moving still faster. The queue has ended; all people are in the bus.
He reaches the bus. The bus starts. He grabs the bar on the entrance stilt of the double decker with his left hand. The bus moves. He fell on his knees. The knees are on the stilt; left foot still on ground. He turns. Then holds the bar with the right hand as well. He pulls himself him. And finally he squats on the stilt. We are watching this with mouths wide open.
The man who held to my hand for so long could perform such stunts! Why did he need me then? Who was he? Was he God? Was He all the way down here to test me? I do not know. I will probably never know. Perhaps, the clue lied in reading his eyes. But I never saw them! Is that a clue in itself? I do not know. I probably do not want to know. I have done my job and I am happy I did it.
“Buddha satiya gaya hai.” (The old man has gone senile.)
I heard a man nearby saying. I was jolted back to reality. Pushkar was smiling. We turned back to the station. I was still thinking what was going around. We reached platform 1A. Pushkar’s friend, whom we left back at college, was already there on 1B. The train arrived soon. The three of us got into it. Pushkar narrated the whole incident to him. I filled in what I felt. He laughed. He made a suggestion to me,
“Arey, tera pocket aur wallet check karr.” (Hey, check your pocket and wallet.)
I was jolted back again. He had to be wrong. He better be wrong. I did the needful. He was wrong.
Good people do exist in the world. And I was smiling.
